


Know Your Scars Like My Own...

by Demerite



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BROT3, Familiar Injuries, Gen, Pre-Series, caring for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demerite/pseuds/Demerite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are so familiar with each others' old injuries they look after them for each other without talking about it. They don't need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Athos

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on the BBC Musketeers Kinkmeme. First Kinkmeme fill, and completely unbeta'd.

It was completely, utterly, freezing cold. As he hunched, soaking wet in the saddle, Aramis had to admit he was surprised that it hadn’t started snowing yet. He was glad it hadn’t though, because that would imply that it would get even colder than it was now. He was also glad that he had good balance, since even with his gloves his fingers had long enough become so numbed by the cold that he couldn’t keep a good grip on the reins. Next to him, Porthos looked just as miserable as he felt, water dripping off the brim of his hat and slowly starting to soak through his cloak. Athos rode a little way ahead of them, his posture in the saddle suggesting just how deeply annoyed he was by the state of the weather. 

Aramis noted something else about his friend’s posture; a slight lean, as if he were only holding the reins with one hand. He knew what it meant immediately, and signalled to Porthos, nodding in Athos’ direction. 

“I know.” Porthos replied, a concerned expression crossing his face.  
“Do you think he’ll let us…” Aramis started to ask. 

“Not here.” Porthos replied, shaking his head. Water flew in every direction from the brim of his hat. “You know how he gets.” 

Aramis nodded, “All stoic.” He half-grumbled, his tone implying that he thought Athos was being more than a little stupid about it all. 

Porthos nodded in agreement, “Come on,” he added, “We’re nearly there.” 

Sure enough, a light was becoming visible, and as they approached, the sign announcing the Wren Inn came into view. Aramis nudged his horse with his heels, and caught up to Athos, who was indeed only using one hand on the reins, his left arm held close to his body.

The three of them stopped in front of the inn and swung down from their horses as one, leading them around to the stable. It wasn’t really that late at night, but the stableboy was asleep. Porthos nudged him with a boot until the young man awoke with a start, babbling apologies as he took their horses. 

Having removed their saddlebags and ensured that their horses would receive proper care, the three entered the inn, glad to be out of the cold and the rain.  
The taproom was warm, and the three sat by the fire, eating the stew that the innkeeper’s daughter – a very pretty young woman with grey eyes and long blonde hair – had brought to them. Despite the warmth, food and wine, Athos still had a sour expression on his face, and kept his arm close to his body. To anyone looking their way, it would simply seem that he was displeased, perhaps in regard to the food or the wine. Porthos and Aramis exchanged glances, knowing what had to be done. But also knowing how it had to be done. If they just offered Athos their help, he would growl at them and refuse, causing himself more pain the following day. But if they sprung their assistance on him, as they had before, he was far more likely to acquiesce. 

The meal finished, they collected their cloaks and hats from where they had left them to dry by the fire. The innkeeper’s daughter – who Aramis discovered was named Elise – showed them to their rooms. 

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” Porthos asked Aramis, grinning, ‘You just have to flirt with everything in skirts.” 

“I never claimed self-control.” Aramis retorted, used to the familiar teasing. “Don’t you dare.” He added, barely glancing over at Athos, who had sprawled across one of the beds and was doing his level best to fall asleep. 

“What?” Athos replied crossly, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. 

Aramis ignored his friend’s annoyance – normally a dangerous course of action with Athos – in favour of kicking off his boots and climbing up onto the bed, seating himself cross legged behind Athos. Porthos also removed his boots and knelt in front of him, reaching for the lacings of Athos’ shirt. Athos swatted his hand away, glaring fiercely. Porthos ignored him and went right back to what he was doing. 

“What are you doing?” Athos asked crossly, trying to glare over his own shoulder at Aramis. 

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” Aramis countered. He laid a gentle hand on Athos’ left shoulder, and felt the flinch he had been expecting. 

“Let us take care of you.” Porthos said, gently unlacing Athos’ shirt and helping him tug it over his head. 

Aramis winced in sympathy when he saw Athos’ shoulder. The scar there was as familiar to him as many of his own, perhaps more so even, as he hadn’t sewn all of his own wounds. He could remember sewing this one though. How Athos had sat perfectly still the way he always did, the whole time. The wound was less than a year old, and the scar was normally pink against his lighter skin. In the cold, it had darkened to almost purple, and when Aramis laid a hand on Athos’ shoulder once more, he could feel the tension and stiffness brought on by riding all day in the rain. From experience, he knew exactly how much newer scars could ache in the cold, especially if the muscle around them was tight. 

“Sorry,” he said softly, “This will probably hurt.” 

Athos made a non-committal noise in return, and Aramis glanced forward to see that Porthos had pulled out his cards and the two were playing. Aramis thought for a moment to caution Porthos against taking any of Athos’ money, but then remembered that there was no way Porthos would try something that stupid. 

Once he was sure that Athos was distracted – and he had rubbed his hands together to warm them – Aramis set to, his long-fingered hands working as gently as he could to massage out the knots in the muscle. He worked carefully, trying not to cause undue pain until Athos turned a little towards him and muttered, 

“I won’t break.” In a voice suggesting that Aramis should stop treating him like he was fragile, and would be damaged by his ministrations. Aramis returned to his task, pressing harder and working at the knotted muscles more aggressively. 

It took close to an hour before Aramis was satisfied. Athos sat perfectly still the entire time, just like he had when Aramis stitched the wound in the first place. 

“You’re done.” Aramis finally stated, sliding off the bed and wincing as the blood flowed back into his lower legs and feet. His right foot was asleep and he knew Athos wasn’t about to thank him, but it was worth it to see his friend pull his shirt back on without a trace of pain on his face. 

The next morning as they were saddling their horses, Athos put a hand on Aramis’ upper arm to catch his attention. 

“Thanks.” He said quietly, before swinging easily up into the saddle. 

Aramis ducked his head and smiled silently.


	2. Porthos

Running after thieves through the twisting streets and back alleys of Paris was not how Porthos had planned to spend his Sunday morning. He’d planned to spend it in well-earned rest, sleeping off the pain of his injuries from their last mission, but instead he and his two closest friends were chasing thieves. 

“That way!” Athos shouted to Aramis, pointing wildly, “Head them off!” 

Aramis vanished into another alley, aiming to cut off their targets. Porthos and Athos kept running. Soon, Porthos felt what he had been waiting for – and dreading. A dull ache had started in his right knee, persistently wearing at his pace. After a few minutes, he noticed that Athos had slowed his pace so that Porthos could keep up. 

“Porthos,” Athos called, still a short way ahead, “Are you alright?”

“Go!” Porthos waved him on, “I’ll catch up.” Athos gave him a concerned look, but kept running in pursuit of the thieves. Porthos slowed his own pace to a brisk walk, testing the knee. He had dislocated it when he fell from his horse – years ago now, when he was first learning to ride – and the surrounding muscle had never properly healed, meaning that running or riding for a long period of time could cause him pain. After sending a lot of the previous two days on horseback, he had been looking forwards to not having to ride – or run – anywhere for a few days’ time. 

Porthos sped up again, hearing the distant sounds of a fight. Athos and Aramis had caught up with the thieves. 

Sure enough, as he ran in the direction Athos had gone, the sounds got louder, and as he rounded a corner he saw Athos and Aramis fighting with the thieves. The one that had appropriated Aramis’ sword – causing the chase in the first place - and was duelling with Athos – with a surprising degree of skill. Aramis was engaged in close-quarter combat with the other two, brutal, hand-to-hand fighting. Aramis was struggling though, using every dirty trick he knew, and his opponents didn’t seem to be tiring. 

Porthos wasted no time, diving into the fight. 

Unfortunately, he collected a boot heel to the side of his right knee, and he went down with a shout of pain. He caught one of the thieves as he fell however, and the man was so surprised that he hit his head on the street and didn’t get up again, unconscious. With one of his foes removed, Aramis was quickly about t dispatch the other thief, and move to help Athos. 

“That belongs to me.” He said, his voice hard, as he came up behind the final thief, relieving him on his sword. With two musketeers pointing cold steel at his heart, the thief surrendered, and Athos bound his hands to prevent him from escaping. 

“Porthos.” Aramis called, training his pistol on the other two thieves, “You alright?”

“Yep.” Porthos lied, standing cautiously and testing his injured knee, “Maybe not.” He corrected, swaying a little and electing to lean against a wall for balance. 

“I’ll take them.” Athos offered, gesturing to the thieves, “Look after Porthos.” Aramis nodded, turning to his friend. Porthos watched Athos lead the thieves away, the two conscious one carrying their unconscious compatriot between them. 

“Come on.” Aramis approached Porthos, “Let’s get you back to the garrison.” He stepped close to the other man, putting an arm around his waist. Porthos draped his arm over Aramis’ shoulder, leaning on him as he began to limp back the way they had come. 

*** 

By the time they made it back to the garrison, having to stop a few times so Porthos could lean against walls to take the weight off his knee, Athos had passed the thieves into custody and was waiting for them in Porthos’ room. 

“Sit.” He told Porthos firmly, gesturing to the bed. 

“Gladly.” Porthos replied, flopping ungracefully onto the bed and sighing with relief. “Thanks.” He added when Aramis’ moved the room’s only chair close enough to the bed so that he could rest his foot on it, taking the pressure off his knee. 

Aramis set about removing Porthos’ boot then pushing up the leg of his breeches to expose the offending knee. Porthos winced at the lightest touch. His knee was badly swollen, and a bruise was forming where he had been kicked. He knew from past experience that he wouldn’t be able to walk on it until well into tomorrow. 

“Here.” Athos passed Aramis a cloth-wrapped bundle, and when Aramis pressed it to Porthos’ knee, it was wonderfully col, clearly containing ice. 

“Where’d you get this?” Porthos asked, raising an eyebrow at Athos. 

“Madame Dubose’s ice cellar.” Athos replied. 

“And how in the world did you convince her to give up some of her precious ice?” Aramis asked. Mme Dubose had an excellent ice cellar, but was fiercely protective of the ice it contained. 

Athos shrugged, looking almost guilty, “What she doesn’t know…” He leant easily against the wall, watching his two friends. He had the greatest admiration and care for the both of them; they were his brothers in all but blood. He half-smiled as he watched the two of them bicker over some inconsequential issue. Even though he was clearly still in pain, Porthos was grinning his huge grin, telling Aramis what he could do with whatever suggestion he had just made. Aramis looked mortally offended at this proposition, and was returning one of his endless supply of smart insults. 

The bickering continued, and Athos smiled fully now, sure in the knowledge that his brothers were safe for another day.


	3. Aramis

Paris was in the middle of a heatwave, and no-one was finding it even slightly amusing. Most people had retreated inside, into cool hallways and damp cellars, and with good sense too. It was the hottest summer anyone could remember; there had been reports of wells drying up and deaths among the elderly of the population. Despite all of this, the King had decided to hold a garden party in the grounds of the palace. And of course, a royal garden party meant a Musketeer guard. Or guards, in this case. 

Athos was utterly unamused, standing at the corner of the royal pavilion. In full uniform, completely with cloak and hat, he was sure he was going to melt. He glared at Treville, not for the first time contemplating some kind of mutiny. Treville, who got to wear light clothing and sit under the pavilion as the King’s guest. 

“Hey.” 

Athos looked up to see Porthos approach, removing his hat to wipe sweat from his forehead. 

“Problem?” Athos asked, noting the concerned look on his face. 

“Maybe.” Porthos nodded to the far corner of the pavilion, where Aramis was standing guard. Athos glanced over at his friend and frowned. Even ta this distance, his friend didn’t look to well. He was pale, and there was something in his posture that wasn’t right. Aramis took a few steps, presumably to stave off the boredom that always came with guard duty, and swayed. What bothered Athos more than this however was the fact that the other man didn’t even seem to notice what had happened. Athos cursed. 

“Get him back to the garrison.” He instructed Porthos, “I’ll see the captain about it. Go.” He added, making a shooing gesture. Porthos, ever on the lookout for the wellbeing of his friends, didn’t have to be told twice. 

“Come on.” Porthos slung an arm around Aramis’ shoulders, “Time to go.” 

Aramis gave him a confused look, “Are we being relieved?” he enquired. 

“No,” Porthos replied, “I’m taking you back to the garrison before I have to carry you there.” He began leading Aramis away. 

“I’m fine.” Aramis insisted, “The heat is certainly unpleasant, but there’s nothing to be concerned about.” 

Porthos just continued to lead Aramis in the direction of the garrison. He and Athos were never sure if Aramis always insisted that he was alright because he didn’t want to be embarrassed by them having to look after him in a public setting, or because they recognised the symptoms of what was coming before he did. Either way, he should have learned by now. 

They were halfway to the garrison by the time Athos caught up to them. Aramis was stumbling by this point, clearly unable to direct himself. If it hadn’t been for Porthos’ arm around his shoulders, he probably would have walked into something, or simply fallen over long before they arrived. 

Athos went ahead to open the door for the two of them, and then busied himself closing the window shutters. He took off his cloak and hung it over the shuttered window to aid in keeping out as much light and noise as possible. 

Porthos guided Aramis inside and laid him down on the narrow bed. 

“Give me a hand?” he asked Athos, who had just closed the door quietly. 

Together, they removed most of Aramis’ outer clothing, leaving him in just his shirt and breeches. They worked silently, knowing that even a little noise would make Aramis feel worse than he already did. As it was, both of them could see how much pain the movements of simply being undressed had him in. 

Athos wet a cloth in the water bucket, wringing the excess water out and laying gently over Aramis’ forehead. Porthos watched him quietly. They both knew how to care for Aramis when he was like this, but Athos tended to take over things a little. When it had all happened the first time, Porthos had known something was wrong, but it had been Athos who had known exactly what was wrong and how to deal with things. 

The two of them slipped from the darkened room, but sat just outside, leaning against the wall on either side of the door. The heat would have made concentration on a card game – their usual pastime – impossible, and they did not want to talk to loudly for fear of disturbing Aramis, so they simply sat outside his door, as if guarding him. Which, in a way, they were. 

***

The next morning, Aramis joined Porthos at breakfast, looking exhausted and dishevelled. He spent most of the time poking listlessly at his food without actually eating anything, at one point almost falling asleep at the table. 

“You going to eat that?” Porthos asked eventually, reaching for Aramis’ plate, knowing the reaction he would get.

Aramis glared at Porthos, and pulled the plate towards himself. Under Porthos’ watchful gaze, he managed at least a few mouthfuls, although he looked as if he might fall asleep at any point. Porthos also coaxed him to drink a little water, which he did with exceptionally bad grace, glowered the whole time. Porthos forgave him for it however, knowing how horrible and sick his friend was still feeling. 

Once he had eaten and drunk enough to satisfy Porthos, his friend led him back to bed, Aramis tired enough that he had to lean on Porthos for some of the walk there. The room was dark, Athos’ cloaks still hanging over the window from the previous afternoon.

Porthos got Aramis settled lying on his bed once more, and was turning to leave when Aramis reached out and caught his sleeve in a loose grasp. 

“Sorry,” Aramis whispered, “Didn’t wanna bother you…” his words were starting to slur together, and Porthos found that he had to concentrate in order to understand them. 

“Hey, don’t apologise.” Porthos told him, “It’s not your fault.” He took Aramis’ hand from his sleeve, squeezing gently and felt Aramis squeeze back before letting go. “Get some sleep.” He told his friend, leaving quietly. 

Outside, he found Athos, who hadn’t been at breakfast. “How is he?” The other man asked, careful to keep his voice low. 

“Sleeping.” Porthos replied, “For now. Where were you?”

“Treville.” Athos explained, “We have today and tomorrow off.” 

“Good.” Porthos stated firmly, resuming his position from the previous day, sitting outside Aramis’ door. Athos joined him, and silently, the two of them sat guard.


End file.
